Slave to the Grind
by xgossamerstars
Summary: Ongoing collection of Preklok, Earlyklok, and Flashback fics. Rated Mature overall, but each story will include its own warnings. Most pairings are Skwisgaar x Toki and/or Charles/Pickles.
1. You

**Title**: You.  
**Rating**: R for implied sex, implied sex with a minor, cursing, drugs...come on, it's Dethklok.  
**Pairing**: Skwisgaar x Toki.

Shivers whisper up my spine as my fingers close around the doorknob. I try to blame it on the chill air of the corridor, the coldness of the brass against my skin as I turn the knob, but I know better. The warmth steals over me even as the first sliver of light appears, spreading over my whole body and being, and yet it still feels as if ghostly fingers are trailing down my backbone.

The door clicks back into place; the world is so still that the minute sound is nearly deafening. For one horrific moment every fine hair stands neatly on end, my heartbeat trebles and I close my eyes, inhaling the air of your room—raw, fresh wood and the sharp smell of the glue that holds it together, as well as something more subtle, and yet more _there; _there's no name, no description for it. It's just…yours.

I pass several moments just breathing you in, but eventually, my eyes flicker open. They search for you, though I know you're not here. I sink down onto your bed, picking up your bear, turning it over in my hands. You're somewhere downstairs right now, but I know you're not with the others. You never want to be with them unless I'm around—it's some kind of habit leftover from the years when English words made your smooth forehead wrinkle in complete confusion.

I remember how you would look up at me then, my guitar case clutched in your arms. Magnus would laugh, Nathan would grunt, Murderface would mumble something about the stupid little foreign kid. Pickles would try, but his accent destroyed any attempts he made at Swedish or Norwegian. So I would tell you what they had said—and sometimes I lied to you, simply so the words of rougher, older men wouldn't hurt you.

What did I know of you and what had hurt you in those days? You were so young, so skinny and so silent, with absolutely nowhere to go and talent with a guitar that seemed utterly inexplicable. You asked me if you could be our roadie, and when I put the question to Nathan, he initially said no—until you snatched my guitar and proceeded to play a string of notes that impressed Magnus and me both. A fourteen year old kid with talent to rival a thirtysomething year old man? It was unheard of…so we kept you, and you did anything we asked of you, provided I was around to translate. It was disturbing how quickly you obeyed us in those days. You weren't a roadie, you were a servant.

I lie back in your bed, now existing in my memories—our memories. I remember how you would cringe every time Nathan bellowed, every time Murderface would snarl. The two of them fought often in those days…full on wrestling matches, rolling on the floor like dogs, punching until blood flew. I still have a pair of white pants stained in blood from the night you and I pulled an unconscious Murderface out from between Nathan's knees. You shivered the entire time you were in Nathan's vicinity; I found you crying in the little space where you slept beneath the kitchen sink of the bus. I remember telling you—in Swedish, of course—to suck it up and get used to it. You nodded at me, mumbling some small noise of agreement, and then you rolled over to sleep and I reeled backward like a drunk.

Your back… What I had expected to be pale skin was a latticework of scar tissue. Some were stark white, like lines drawn; others were so bunched and raised that running fingers over them would be like feeling the dips and rises of a landscape model. And all the scars crisscrossed, scar on scar, from somewhere within your shorts all the way beneath your ragged, long hair.

What possessed me then, I have no clue—I was abused, but not…not in such a way. Never before had I counted myself lucky in my childhood until I first saw you shirtless. It made something in my throat catch, and before I could control myself, I had touched one scarred shoulder.

You rolled over to look at me, wiping your eyes quickly so that I wouldn't see that you hadn't yet stopped crying, and made some small sound of question. I stuttered for a moment—I _never _stutter—and then offered you my hand, mumbling something about the cold and drafts under a sink. _"Come sleep with me," _I said, and you obeyed me like you obeyed every other order anyone had ever given you. I still regret not asking you to come, rather than telling you to. You were gone when I opened my eyes the next morning, though all we did was sleep.

Is it hero worship that has made you come back to my bed over the years? Come back to it when I'm drunk and stumbling, come back to it every time I say _Come sleep with me _though sleep doesn't happen for hours? You're grown now—you were grown the night Magnus's arthritis finally prevented him from playing a show, and you took the stage like you had always belonged there. When it put him out of commission for good—barely a year before he died—you said your first English words to Nathan: "I can does it. You knows I can does it. Let me play." And he let you, and you no longer obeyed our every whim and command, and years of carrying heavy band equipment had given you the muscle to back up your refusal. You were our equal, and yet to this day, when I command you to come to my bed, you come—though I always wake up to find you gone.

I thrust out one of my long arms in frustration—your alarm clock falls to the floor and shatters, but you'll blame that on your cat. I'm breathing you in still; your room is a gas chamber of inhaled memories and emotions. I want to leave but I want to stay, I want to stay so that I can finally ask you to come to bed with me. Ask you, not tell you to, and see if you refuse.

_Don't refuse._

That one thought is enough to propel me toward the door. I have never handled rejection well. I'd rather have of you what you'll give to me than ruin it all with a question. This power you have over me—this power to say no, should I ever actually ask—makes me insecure, makes me want to run from your room back to my own and hide there for the rest of the night. You alone in this world can hurt me.

It is, of course, my luck that the first thing I see when I open your door to flee is your wide eyed face, hand hovering just beyond where the doorknob was seconds before.

"_Skwisgaar? What are you doing in my room?"_

You lean against the doorframe, shirtless, wearing nothing but gym shorts—you must have come from the seldom-used weight room. You say the words without an ounce of accusation in your voice—as if I hadn't invaded your privacy.

"_I…I…I broke your alarm clock. I'm sorry." _

You peer around my shoulder to the broken clock beside your bed, and smirk crosses your lips. You laugh a little, quietly.

"_I'll have another one by the time I go to sleep. But really, Skwisgaar…why were you in my room? Do you need to borrow something?"_

I see the edges of the old scars creeping over your broad shoulders. They've faded so much now, but my fingers remember the feel of them. I've run my hands down your back so many times…

"_Toki?"_

"_Yes, Skwis?"_

"_Will you…would you like to sleep with me tonight?"_

I watch your eyes grow wide again, watch you stand up straight from the doorframe, and the panic rising in my chest is hotter than heartburn. Your silence seems to last for hours interminable, and I duck around you as quickly as I can, muttering my excuses.

Your fingers close around my thin wrist just before I'm out of arm's reach. I try to go on, but you pull me back. You're stronger than me now.

"_Skwis, look at me." _You say as you release my wrist.

I do so, peering down at you just because you asked. Your powerful arms are crossed over your chest, but once I lock eyes with you, once that grin spreads over your face, you reach down and take my hand.

"_Did you even have to ask?"_

"_I…I did. Yes, I did."_

"_You know the answer is always going to be yes."_

I smile, and I can feel the uncharacteristic broadness of it, but you just laugh and pulls me down the hall toward my room.

"_Toki?"_

"_Yeah, Skwis?"_

"_Just…sleep. Tonight. Okay?"_

You open the door to my room and let me go in ahead of you. When you shut it, you wrap your arms around my waist, resting your forehead against mine. You smile again before toppling me down into the mass of white covers. We lie there, talking, until my eyes fall closed. When I wake, you're still there, wrapped around me more closely than the covers.


	2. Answering Machines

**Title**: Answering Machines.  
**Rating**: R for implied drug use, cursing, etc.  
**Pairing**: Implied Charles x Pickles.

Charles Foster Ofdensen hated his answering machine. He hated the messages that his boss left, asking him to do this, don't to that, scrap that, start this, oh and could you pick up my dry cleaning? Charles had believed his father when the old man assured him that interning for the family friend would be a good idea, but so far, Charles had turned out to be nothing more than a glorified secretary. The thought perturbed him, but Charles said nothing. He kept his composure throughout the message, erased it, and began to play the next one.

It was a message from a girl. Charles hated these even more, because the girls always asked him why he hadn't called them back, and that wasn't a question that Charles felt like contemplating. _Now or ever, _he thought grimly, as he erased the message before the girl had even said goodbye. His expression hardly changed.

The next message was from his father, and these were worse. The man always asked Charles why he never called back any of the girls that his father set him up with. The old man always asked this in a mocking, sneering tone of voice that made Charles' carefully composed features wince the tiniest bit. This message, like all the others his father left, was the only one that Charles listened to in its entirety before erasing.

On a normal evening, after these three messages had been played, there were no more. It had certainly been a normal enough day—almost average enough to be boring, even by Charles' standards. He had just moved into the living room to hang his coat in the closet when he heard a voice that made him freeze.

_"'Ey, Charlie. Ain't talked t'ya in awhile, sahry. Ain't been able t'get enough cash t'gether fer this gahdammed pay phone. I can't tell ya where t'reach me just now, I had t'sell th' cell phone ya got me…sahry, Charlie. I know it pisses ya off. I…I just had t' do it. I'm headin' down t'the south, though, it's gettin' pretty fackin' cold at night. I'll give ya a call when I get there, awright? 'Bye, Charlie."_

It had been approximately a month and a half since the last time Charles had heard from Pickles—six months since he had laid eyes on him, when Pickles had once again refused to move in with him, to go to rehab, to accept money…the only thing he accepted was a cell phone, which Ofdensen had to beg him to take.

"Just in case," Charles had told him, pressing the bulky phone into Pickles' hand. "What if you get hurt out there in the middle of nowhere? Just in case. I'm paying for everything."

Since the last phone call from Pickles had not traced back to the cell phone's number, and since Charles' frequent calls to the phone had been getting a stranger's voice since three months ago, Charles was fairly certain that Pickles had not only just sold the phone. It would, of course, be different if he had thought that Pickles had sold it for clothes or food—if he could have _believed _that it had been sold for clothes or food—but Charles knew better.

It was for these reasons—plus a thousand others—that Charles hated messages from Pickles the most. He hated the way the sound of Pickles' voice made his heart beat faster, the way it made his hands twist up into hard, sweaty fists. He hated the way it made him bite through the scar tissue that lined the inside of his lower lip until the coppery, metallic taste of blood burst into his mouth. Most of all he hated the way that, when he looked in the mirror that night before he crawled into bed, his face was an open book, where anyone and everyone could read his anxiety.

He stared at himself in the mirror, trying to force his face back into the lines of blank composure that he had drilled into himself during childhood. It was simply no good. As long as he could hear Pickles' voice in his memory, some hurt thing inside him controlled his face.

Charles knew in advance that he would not sleep that night, but the knowledge was useless. Classes the next morning were still hell. His internship was still something akin to torture. His martial arts lessons were a wash—he was unable to focus, unable to clear his mind.

For the next three months, Charles recovered. When Pickles' voice finally faded from his memory, Charles told himself in no uncertain terms that the heartache of hearing Pickles' voice was not nearly as bad as he had made it out to be. He told himself that the next time he received a message from Pickles, he would simply erase it, along with Pickles, from his life, ignoring the fact that every single saved message on his answering machine was actually from Pickles. He went out with the girls his father sent his way and told himself that he enjoyed their company, and that he would call them back, ignoring the fact that he kept receiving messages asking why he had _not_ called them back.

Charles Foster Ofdensen had long been an expert at fooling himself.

_"Char—_" A long pause while Pickles' coughed violently. _"Charlie. I made it. I'm in Atlanta. Sleepin' in some aban—" _ More coughing. _"Some abandoned buildin'. Ya know, Charlie, its fackin' cold down here too. Guess I took too long gettin' here. Ain't snowin' though." _Another long pause while Pickles coughed. _"Sahry bout that, Charlie. Sounds awful, I reckon. Feels pretty awful too, come t'think of it. I'm…I'm not doin' so hot, Charlie, t'be ahnest. I'm thinkin' I'm 'bout to go find somewhere t'sleep. I'll call ya back, though, Charlie, on yer cell phone so y'can actually talk t'me. I know it—" _Coughing. _"I know it pisses ya off when I call ya just t'leave ya messages…but…I…well, at least this way I already know yer not gonna answer. I'll talk t'ya later, Charlie, maybe."_

Charles stood in front of his hated answering machine, his blood churning through his veins just a little faster than usual. His face, which had spent the past three months arranged in that expression of perfect blankness that he so prized, was now a masterpiece of misery. The little bit of scar tissue in his mouth burst open with the pressure of his teeth, and his whole body shook with the effort of containing violent emotion.

In the background, his television was broadcasting a news piece about the dangerous drug-culture practice of sharing needles, and its links to the HIV virus.

It burst out of him, the fear and the pain and the panic, the birth throes of a small, hateful little voice in the back of his mind.

_He's dying, you know, _that voice said sensibly, even as Charles felt hot tears burn their way down his stubbly cheeks. _He's a drug addict and he's contracted HIV and he's dying. He'll sell a phone, he'll share a needle, and he's dying and he'll be dead before you ever get to him._

It was the first time Charles had ever heard that voice. How was he to know, as he made his arrangements for a flight to Atlanta, that he and that voice would become so close over the ensuing years?


	3. Bad Little Boys

**Title**: Bad Little Boys  
**Rating**: MA. Do not read this if you are under the age of 18. It contains implied pedophilia and incest.  
**Pairing**: Pre-slash Skwisgaar x Toki.

Endless tendrils of ethereal smoke twist and twine their way through the shadows. He can smell it, a heavy, cloying odor that reeks of nicotine and humiliation, and he curls himself more tightly into the corner underneath the bed. He clutches a pale blue knitted thing to his chest and buries his baby button nose into its woolly folds, trying to escape the smell of smoke.

The bed is pulled away from the wall; its feet scratch up threads from the ragged carpet, and light shines through the haze. He blinks up at it, once, twice, then there's nothing but her dark silhouette as she reaches down for him. He goes into her arms like any little boy would; he is barely five, and knows only that he loves his mother just a little more than he fears her.

She holds him low on her hip, a coke-thin blonde woman who may have been beautiful twenty years ago. The boy is small and slight, but her sticklike arms strain to support him.

"We're going to work now," she mutters to him, slipping her hands beneath his armpits in order to hold him at eye level. "Mommy needs you to be a good boy tonight and do everything the nice old men ask you to, understand?"

His nose wrinkles and he wriggles to be put down, but his mother's red-painted talons dig deeply into his bare ribs. When he lets out a surprised whimper, they dig deeper.

"You had better behave yourself tonight, Skwisgaar," she shakes him a little. "You know what happens to bad little boys, don't you?"

Skwisgaar nods, his beautiful sapphire eyes wide with fear, but his mother decides to remind him anyway.

"If you're a bad little boy Mommy will leave you with those old men," she tells him, "Mommy will leave you with them for as long as they want and you'll be all alone. Do you understand me?"

He nods again, frantically, reaching out his arms to her to show her just how good he'll be if only she stays with him. Going to work is always awful, but it is a little less awful when his mommy is the one who is touching him.

She ignores his open arms and shifts him back to her bony hip. On her way out the door, she grabs a red sequined bag and throws it over her shoulder. Little Skwisgaar hugs his blue blanket and blinks at his reflection in the shiny dots.

xXx

He sits on his unmade bed in nothing more than faded boxer shorts, his guitar beside him. He polishes the instrument with a ragged blue piece of cloth until he can see his bright eyes reflected in the surface. He wrinkles his nose at his likeness; at twelve, a face that might one day be described as aquiline now only seems faintly feminine, and Skwisgaar could not hate it more.

He picks up the guitar and shifts it into his lap. It looks too big and too heavy across his androgynous frame, but the neck nestles comfortably into the crook of his left arm. Rather than begin strumming, however, he slips the long, delicate fingers of his right hand into his mouth—he has paused in his marathon playing session only to wipe away the blood that has dripped from them. The feel of his fingers in his mouth makes him sick, but it isn't because of the blood.

_It must be because I haven't eaten, _he tells himself. The words feel false, but he pretends to believe them. He keeps sucking on his fingers, soothing the pain in them as best he can. A few minutes later he takes them out of his mouth and examines them carefully. They look a little like raw meat, and that turns his stomach even more; he swallows his gorge with an effort. He doesn't particularly want to venture outside his bedroom toward the bathroom. Earlier that day his mother had told him to make himself as scarce as possible, because one of his uncles would be coming over and the two of them would be having a "grow- up conversation."

"Pfft," Skwisgaar huffs, and shakes his yellow-blond fringe out of his eyes in order to observe the shredded skin of his fingers more closely. He doesn't like the look of them, but he bends his aching back over the guitar once more and forces his lacerated fingers to pick out a sort of melody, losing himself in the beauty of pain and pleasure. He doesn't feel the passage of time; he doesn't hear the door to his cramped little room open, nor Serveta's footsteps as she slips over to him. He isn't even aware of the tears that have been streaming down his face until she slaps him, shrieking at him to stop making such an awful racket while she's trying to sleep.

xXx

_Was it this fucking cold in Sweden?_

A single black hoodie is not a very effective defense against the snow of Norway. Skwisgaar draws his hood closer around his long face—it is still a rather finely featured face, but at least he no longer looks so much like a girl—and ducks into an abandoned building just as the snow begins to come down with a vengeance.

Upon examining his refuge, he is slightly cheered by the atmosphere. The posters on the walls are dusty and faded, but Skwisgaar can read words such as DARKTHRONE and MAYHEM emblazoned on a few. They bring a small, rare smile to his lips as he picks his way through the debris on the floor toward a poster that he actually cannot read well. It is in the far corner from the door and written in English, but Skwisgaar is able to sound out the name of the band: CAN-NI-BAL COR-PSE.

"Sounds promising," he mutters to himself. His voice hangs in the dead, cold air; there is no response, nor hope for one. Unnerved by silence, Skwisgaar occupies himself with perusing some of the junk that is scattered across the dusty floor. He soon comes to the conclusion that whoever owned this store when it was in operation must have been from America—he cannot understand many of the words on the old album covers. He spends a good deal of time flipping through an ancient _Rolling Stone _magazine, however, enjoying the pictures even though he cannot read a word of English. He soon grows bored, as he does with everything that isn't the guitar; when he drops the magazine back to the floor, the dust settles like snow across the redheaded, green-eyed boy on the cover.

He passes a little more time simply watching the snow fall, unwilling to take out his guitar in such cold. It is wrapped up in what remains of an old, blue blanket, but the neck still pokes out above one of his shoulders; it just can't be helped.

The snowfall hypnotizes him, making him feel sleepy and drowsy despite the frigid temperature; then he hears footsteps, and he ducks away back into the shadows.

What he observes is quite surprising—a boy sprints up from the forest at the edge of the town, with icicles frozen into his longish brown hair and a look of terror upon his face that rings faint, hastily silenced alarm bells in the depths of Skwisgaar's mind. The boy stops his mad dash in front of the old shop and bends double, resting his hands on his knees and taking great gasps of the frozen air.

Skwisgaar notices two things at once: the boy is wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt in a Norwegian snowstorm, and the boy has a guitar strapped to his back. He chooses to comment upon the latter.

"Do you play?"

The boy jumps in surprise. He turns to face Skwisgaar, all muscles tensed to take off once more, but instead he simply gazes at him with a look of such absolute wonder on his face that Skwisgaar begins to feel uncomfortable.

"I asked if you played," Skwisgaar says again. "Fuck, I know I'm speaking Swedish, but there's not that much difference in our languages, is there?"

When the kid speaks, his voice shakes. "No…no." he answers. "And yes, I play."

"How well?" Skwisgaar asks, and actually smiles—it is not every day that he meets another guitar player, especially in this corner of the world.

The kid shrugs. "I taught myself," he answers, "So probably not very well."

At this, Skwisgaar's face breaks into an uncharacteristically broad grin. He fishes around in his jacket pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. "I taught myself too—and I'm the best," he replies, then on a whim adds, "Want one? You look like you could use it."

The boy barely hesitates before taking one. Skwisgaar lights it for him—the kid stares at the lighter as if it might be some sort of fabulous new invention, and then chokes on the smoke until his face turns purple. It makes Skwisgaar's lips twitch into a smirk; he is smiling more today than he has in months.

Silence falls for a bit, and Skwisgaar studies the kid; he may be fourteen at the oldest, but something about those wide innocent eyes makes Skwisgaar believe that emotionally, the boy is barely ten. He contemplates asking what the kid is running from, but holds his tongue. Instead, he says, "I'm heading to New York City to look for a band. If you're looking to get out of here, I can get you fake papers, all the shit you'll need to get into America legally."

The boy's eyes light up instantly. "I'll go. Think we'll get into the same band?"

Skwisgaar smirks again—he feels his eyes raking down the kid's body, but for once, there are no sick feelings associated with the action. He revels in it, teasing the boy with pleasure. "No way," he says, "I bet you play like a dildo."

The kid turns his head to one side and asks, "What's a dildo?"

Skwisgaar stares at him for a moment, almost unable to believe what he is hearing—the boy is _fourteen—_but when he sees those wide baby blues gazing up at him, he simply rolls his eyes. "It's damn sure not for playing guitar. Now come on, we've got a lot of walking to do." _And I've got a lot to teach you…_

The boy nods, matching his step to Skwisgaar's. "Okay, Mr….uh, what am I supposed to call you? My name is Toki Wartooth."

_Mister? Really? _Skwisgaar rolls his eyes once more. "Pfft, little Toki. Don't call me Mr. anything. Just call me Skwisgaar."


	4. Strangers Have the Best Candy

**Title**: Strangers Have the Best Candy  
**Rating**: R. Child abuse.  
**Pairing**: Pre-slash Skwisgaar x Toki.  
**A/N**: This fic is a companion to "Bad Little Boys."

It's a terrible thing to be young and lost. No matter where you've lost your way—the most crowded town in the area, with grownups rushing by you without so much as a backward glance, or the unforgiving darkness of the forest with only bright yellow eyes to see you—you are utterly, totally alone. There is no familiar face to comfort you, nothing to recognize and cling to for support. There is nothing, and there is no one; there is only you and your desperate, unparalleled desire to be back amongst those you know best.

But sometimes, you're more lost in your own house than you are in the forest, more alone with those you know best than you are with strangers; more desperate for the unknown than for the familiar.

xXx

It was unhealthy—if the wounds got infected, God only knew what would happen to him then—but oh, it felt so _good _ to lie in the snow, baring his striped back to the cool powder beneath him, letting his hazy mind wander as he studied the branches of the trees all around him. He knew the warmth of his body and his blood would eventually melt the snow, rendering his unorthodox painkiller useless, but for now, he was simply grateful to be alive.

God would understand if he didn't get on his knees to pray, wouldn't He? Toki couldn't bring himself to his knees right now; the flow of blood had finally slowed, and if he moved to get into position to pray, fresh rivers would pour. Toki couldn't take any more blood, couldn't take any more pain, though he knew he must deserve it.

_I'm sorry I can't get in the right position to worship You, God, _Toki said to himself in his fuzzy, six-year-old mind. _I hope You'll forgive me, Father taught me my lesson in Your name and I've learned it and next time I'll bring the water buckets faster. In Your name I pray, amen._

When Toki's father found him, his back covered in icy scabs and his body sinking into the beginning stages of hypothermia, Auslaug drug him back into the drafty shack by his hair. There, Toki was made to stay in his room and pray to be forgiven for staying out so late. The boy knelt on the dry grains of rice that Auslaug had scattered on the floor and prepared himself for a long night.

xXx

_If it feels good it's sin if it feels good it's sin if it feels good it's sin..._

And the music made him feel so good. The moment he had walked into the tiny shop and heard it, it had made his heart rise and race, his spine tingle. For eleven years of his life he had thought music consisted only of hymns, had been taught that all other music was sin, an offense to God…but the voices had struck a chord within him that hymns had never touched. Hymns were lulling, almost like a sedative, but this music woke him, stirred him, brought a smile to his bruised face and words to his usually silent lips.

"Please, sir, could you tell me who is singing this song?" Toki had asked his question before he even had a good look at the shopkeeper—when the older man turned, his face pale and his stark blue eyes outlined in black, rings looped through his lips and nose and eyebrows, Toki instinctively clutched the crucifix underneath his threadbare shirt and cowered.

Then the shopkeeper chuckled, and the sound had been so warm and kind that Toki had let go of his crucifix and looked up at the man from beneath his long lashes.

"Name of band is Darkthrone," the man had told him in broken Norwegian. "Album is on shelf over in corner, if you want it."

"Oh, no sir, thank you sir, I don't have a music player, sir…but…sir…?" Toki had trailed off, his pale cheeks flushing crimson.

The shopkeeper motioned him to keep going, and Toki finished his question.

"Sir, could I come in here and just listen to the music? When I'm in town? Please, sir, I won't be any trouble, if you want I'll even help you around the shop, I'm very good at doing chores, sir.."

"What you mean, kid? No, no, you don't do chore—you listen whenever you want to. Glad to have you—and here, take. You could use more than I." The shopkeeper had chuckled again as he dug in his pockets with one hand and patted his considerable belly with the other. He had then pulled out a small, unopened pack of what looked to Toki like pink licorice whips and handed them to Toki.

"Oh, no sir, please—I couldn't…"

But the shopkeeper waved him off, smiling warmly. "You will like. Take—candy from America!"

Toki couldn't suppress a smile. It wasn't until the music faded from his hearing that he remembered what he had been taught—_if it feels good it's sin, if it feels good it's sin…_

xXx

_God, if this is sin, then either I'm going to hell or You're nothing but a fucking lie._

Sixteen-year-old Toki Wartooth wrenched his crucifix from his neck, snapping the thin chain and driving the end of the cross deep into the thin wall of his bedroom. He could still smell the acrid scent of burning plastic as his collection of death and black metal burned in the living room fireplace. He expected to feel forsaken, alone, abandoned by the God he had just denounced—instead, he felt free.

His father's fist was pounding into the flimsy door, but Toki's bedstead would hold it. He wrapped up his crappy but much-loved electric guitar (his father hadn't found that, at least) in an old sheet and climbed out his window, taking off through the snow toward town.

He didn't slow down until he reached the door of the old metal music shop, fearing every moment that his father's clawlike hands would clench down on his neck and pull him backward, just when he had finally been released. Though the shopkeeper who had introduced him to Twizzlers was long gone, the place was still a haven for Toki, with posters of Toki's favorite bands still clinging to the dusty walls.

He bent over, his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath through the painful stitch in his side. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a silken voice behind him whisper,

"Do you play?"

Toki whirled around, his shaggy brown hair whipping him in the face. A man stepped through the shattered front window of the old metal music shop—he had been nearly invisible in the shadows. A dark hoodie hung on his skeletal frame, and he wore tight black jeans that were fraying at the heels. His black boots were covered in mud and muck.

When the strange man shook his hood away from his face and came into the light, Toki had to crane his neck upward to see him properly. His hair was longish and bright blond; his eyes glinted icelike in the light from the street lamp. The neck of guitar poked up from behind one thin shoulder. He looked dangerous, like a thin, starved creature, but even at first glance Toki knew he would rather spend years in this man's company than another second in his family's.

"I asked if you played," the blond man repeated, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Fuck, I know I'm speaking Swedish, but there's not that much difference in our languages, is there?"

"No…no," Toki answered, his voice shaking a little. "And yes, I play."

"How well?" the man asked this with a smug little smile, as if he knew that no one would ever play as well as he did.

Toki shrugged. "I taught myself, so probably not very well."

The thin man grinned, fishing in his jacket pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. "I taught myself too—and I'm the best. Want one? You look like you could use it."

Toki hesitated only a moment before he took a cigarette out of the offered pack. The stranger lit it, then handed it to him, chuckling quietly when Toki choked on the smoke and turned a light shade of purple.

They stood there, smoking in the light of the street lamp for awhile, before the blond man said, "I'm heading to New York City to look for a band. If you're looking to get out of here, I can get you fake papers, all the shit you'll need to get into America legally."

Toki nodded, exhaling smoke. "I'll go. Think we'll get into the same band?"

"Pfft," the man eyed Toki critically, though a smirk crept over his full lips as his eyes roved over the Norwegian's strong body. "No way. I bet you play like a dildo."

Toki cocked his head to one side. "What's a dildo?"

The blond man stared at him for a moment, incredulous, before rolling his eyes. "It's damn sure not for playing guitar. Now come on, we've got a lot of walking to do."

"Okay, Mr…uh, what am I supposed to call you?" Toki asked, as he began to follow the man. "My name is Toki Wartooth."

"Pfft, little Toki," the man rolled his eyes again. "Don't call me Mr. anything. Just call me Skwisgaar."


	5. Bulls in a China Shop

**Title**: Bulls in a China Shop  
**Rating**: R for cursing, drinking, drugs, and blood.  
**Pairing**: No specific pairing; Skwisgaar x Toki if you squint and stand on your head.  
**A/N**: Told from Pickles' POV.

"Oh, fack, not ag'in!"

I snatched up the bottle of Mr. Boston's vodka just as Will's back crashed through the cheap fiberboard coffee table, shattering it into a zillion pieces. The Boston's was in a plastic bottle, of course, but eh, waste not, want not, you know?

Anyway, Will just kind laid there for a minute, sucking in breath through that gap in his teeth. His hair was so long that it hung down into his face in dark, sweat-matted coils, covering his eyes. I turned up the bottle and took a few sips—okay, well, swallows. I was just beginning to think that maybe Will really was down for the count—Nathan sure did, he had already turned his back and was weaving his drunk ass toward the door of the bus—when those eyes of his flashed open. I nearly pissed myself; Will's got green eyes, yeah, but they're some kinda fucked up shade that looks yellow in the light, and I was way too drunk and too high to be dealing with William Murderface's freaky demon eyes. I sat my happy ass on the sofa and commented to the Swede on how it didn't do no good to turn your back on Will when he was fucked up.

Skwisgaar was plucking at his guitar, as unperturbed as he ever was by the thrashing, crashing, and guttural snarls of rage coming from the front of the bus. I swear to God I've never seen nothing ruffle that pretty boy's feather's, unless it's something to do with the kid.

The kid, incidentally, was not doing so hot; he was crouched down in that itty bitty space between the arm of the ragged sofa and the cheap countertop, cringing every time he heard Nathan or Will snap or snarl or yell or bark or whatever the fuck they were doing over there.

"Ay, Blondie," I said, "What's with th' kid?"

Skwisgaar glanced down at the kid and muttered something I couldn't understand, and the kid answered in words that equaled just as much gibberish. I'd tried to learn how to speak a little Swedish for the kid's sake, but Blondie said my accent was so bad it butchered any attempt I made. Bums me out, man—I like that kid.

Anyway, Skwisgaar was just opening his mouth to tell me what the kid had said when the two bulls to our particular little china shop came thundering into our shitty sitting area. I think we both completely forgot about the kid right then—Nate and Will had suddenly become our main priority, because there was way too much blood on the floor.

Nathan and Will are at each other all the time, you understand; maybe it's a thing Southern boys to do make friends, beat the shit out of each other, I donno, but me and the Swede had pretty well gotten used to it. Magnus could usually break 'em up when they got bad, but Magnus was out somewhere with the manager trying to find a doc that could do something about his hands, so it was just the four of us and the kid that night—so of course, Will and Nathan had to pick that night to get so drunk they couldn't pronounce their own names. The two of them can hold their beer real well, but I'll be goddamned if they can hold their liquor without throwing a punch or two. That night, though, they both had a dumb, animal look in their eyes, like they'd cheerfully rip the other up and drink his blood if he'd only hold still long enough.

There was plenty of blood to be had on the floor, however—it was pouring from Will's bashed-in nose like Niagra Fuckin' Falls, and there was more dribbling from both their knuckles. Nate's lips were split and I think he'd lost a tooth, but he stumbled his way over the remains of our cheap coffee table and threw Will down one more time.

Will didn't move, but Nathan pinned him down with his knees and went to work with his fists anyway.

"Nat'ans," Skwisgaar snapped, "Stops it! Yous goingks to be killingks him!"

Nathan didn't seem to hear; he just went on pounding Will's face. I threw the Boston's bottle at him, forgetting that it was plastic—didn't even phase him.

"Oh, _fack_," I groaned. "This is gonna hurt...Blondie, pull Will out when I get Nate outta the way, awright?"

Skwisgaar nodded, and I sighed. I hate doing shit like this, mind you—I'm the littlest fuckin' guy in the band and Nate's the biggest.

I jumped on Nathan's broad back, wrapping my skinny little arms around his bull throat like I was giving it the world's most enthusiastic hug. He promptly stopped beating Will and began to try to claw my skin off, but I held on, even when he started thrashin' around the room like a real bull. I think I was even drunk enough to yell, "Wheeeeeeeee!" like a bastard.

I barely saw Skwisgaar and the kid pulling Will into the tiny bathroom—I guess Will was too heavy for that skinny Swede to pull himself—but I remember the kid looking down at his shorts and shirt and hands, all covered in Will's blood, and bursting into tears.

I remember watching Skwisgaar give the kid a rough hug, even though all Toki was doing was smearing more blood over his lily-white jeans.

I remember feeling glad that the kid had _someone, _at least, but then feeling and thought and coherence took a walk as Nathan slammed me into the wall.

Ah, man, but it was worth it to watch the manager ream those guys a new asshole the next morning, even as they were puking up their guts (and a few teeth, I bet).


	6. Devil Water

**Title**: Devil Water.  
**Rating**: R for drinking, drugs, and cursing.  
**Pairing**: Lightly implied Skwisgaar x Toki.

"Guys…do you really think that this is such a good idea? I mean, the kid is only sixteen…" Magnus eyed the bottles of Mr. Boston's vodka warily as he rubbed his aching hands together under the stream of hot water pouring from the kitchenette faucet.

"Dood, I started drinkin' when I was fourteen," Pickles waved his hand dismissively. "You sh'd take a shot too, it'd make yer hands feel better."

"What would make my hands feel better is weed," Magnus grumbled. "Where's Will? He went out to get it an hour ago."

"I'm right here," William Murderface banged open the door of the tour bus, holding up a bag full of weed. "Not midsch, either. Thisch isch good schit, I tried it out myschelf…"

"Throw it over here," Pickles held up a hand and Murderface tossed it to him. "Nate, pour the kid a shot, why don'tcha?"

"Don't call me Nate," Nathan Explosion snapped, but did as he was told. He filled a tall shotglass full of the cheap vodka, and offered it to the kid.

The kid, whose name was actually Toki Wartooth, looked up at the hulking figure of Nathan and scooted back a little on the arm of the sofa where he was perched. Skwisgaar, who was sitting beside the kid—he was always near him, he was the only one who could fucking understand him—elbowed the younger boy in the ribs.

_"Stop being a pussy and take it,"_ Skwisgaar muttered in Swedish.

_"But what is it, Skwisgaar?" _Toki asked in Norwegian. He took the shot glass and muttered, "Takk" to Nathan, forgetting that the frontman was from Florida and didn't understand a word Toki ever said.

_"Liquor," _Skwisgaar replied, and Toki's eyes grew wide.

_"Y-you mean Devil water?" _Toki began to tremble violently, staring at the glass in his hand as if it was burning him.

_"How many times do I have to tell you, Toki? Not everything your parents told you is true," _Skwisgaar's skin crawled a little as he remembered what Toki's bare back looked like. _"Liquor won't hurt you. Just drink it." _

Toki looked back at Skwisgaar, and the shakes subsided. _"It…it really won't hurt me?" _

_"No. Drink it." _

Toki drank, and all the members of Dethklok watched, hoping to observe the funny face they all just knew he would make—but Toki, who had never had a drop of alcohol in his life, quaffed the vodka shot as if it was water, and politely asked for more.

"De kids be wantingks anodder one," Skwisgaar translated lazily, taking the proffered joint from Pickles and inhaling deeply.

"Dood, how d'ya say 'Yer a badass' in Swedish?" Pickles asked, pouring Toki another shot and watching in awe as he swallowed it without so much as a grimace.

"That shit is like…filtered rubbing alcohol. And he's swallowing it like it's…like, water." Nathan handed the kid yet another shot.

"Slows it downs," Skwisgaar said, eyeing Toki warily. "De kids never drunk in his lifes. And Pickle, it's 'Du ar en utan.'"

"Dwar enutten?" Pickles glanced hopefully at Toki, wondering if his clumsy attempt at Swedish had registered, but Toki only looked at Skwisgaar and shrugged.

"Fuck, I give up," Pickles poured another shotglass full of vodka and handed it to Toki. "But the kid's a champ."

x—x—x  
_One hour later…_

"THE MOTHERFUCKER BIT ME," Nathan thundered, releasing his grip on Toki's chest so suddenly that the kid fell to the floor. He didn't stay there for long—he spat out the blood that had flowed into his mouth and rose into a crouch, fingertips of one hand pressed to the floor between his legs in order to steady himself.

_"Stay the fuck away from me, fucker," _he snarled, and Nathan scrambled behind the sofa with Magnus, Pickles, and Murderface.

"What the fuck is he saying, Skwisgaar?" Nathan cried, ripping his shirt off and pressing it against the wound in his arm.

"He be tellingks you to stays away froms him," Skwisgaar replied, not even bothering to look at his bandmates. He kept himself facing Toki, his knees slightly bent to spring out of the way should the kid try to leap at him.

"No fuckin' problem there," Murderface mumbled.

Toki began to rise; the four members of Dethklok behind the sofa ducked. Skwisgaar tensed himself to run, hoping to get behind Toki and subdue him.

But Toki was only standing to pull his shirt off. He swayed and stumbled, but he managed to get the thin blue material over his head without hitting the floor himself. He threw it behind him, then cut his wild eyes at Skwisgaar.

Pickles risked a peek over the sofa; when he sucked in his breath, his three bandmates raised their heads to look as well.

"What th' fuck happened t' th' kid's back?" Pickles whispered.

"Skwisgaar said he was, like, abused or some shit," Nathan pulled his wadded-up black t-shirt off his right forearm, grimaced, and pressed it back again.

"That might exschplain why he'sch going batschit right now," Murderface mused.

A slew of Norwegian words so slurred that not even Skwisgaar understood them were pouring from Toki's bloody mouth as he swayed. He was so drunk that he lost his balance and began to fall forward; Skwisgaar instinctively rushed forward to catch him, forgetting that this was not Toki, it was some demon possessing Toki's body—the kid dug his nails into the backs of Skwisgaar's arms the moment the blond stopped his fall. Skwisgaar hissed in pain; he could feel the little rivulets of blood seeping down his arms, but he didn't let Toki go. Instead he locked his arms around the boy's skinny body and held on.

Toki began to claw, to snap his teeth, to jacknife his body in a crazed effort to escape the cage of Skwisgaar's skinny arms, but for the time being, the blond was stronger. He held on to Toki, allowing himself to bleed and bruise until the kid's psychotic, drunken energy wore down. It took some time, but eventually, just when Skwisgaar didn't think he could hold on any longer, Toki slumped in his arms and muttered, _"Skwisgaar…I think…oh, god, I'm going to be sick…"_

Skwisgaar carried the kid into the bathroom and draped him over the toilet. As he held Toki's ragged brown hair out of his face, he called through the cracked door, "Yous guys can be goingks ons to bed nows. I gots dis."

To Toki, he said, _"You're sleeping with me again tonight. I don't want you choking on your own vomit or something." _

_"Okay, Skwisgaar," _Toki mumbled, and heaved up a wash of clear liquid. _"I'm…I'm sorry." _

Skwisgaar repressed an urge to rub the younger boy's scarred back. "Just shut up and puke, Toki."


	7. All Hallow's Eve

**Title**: All Hallow's Eve  
**Rating**: R. Cursing, drugs, slightly sexual thoughts toward a minor, an AWFUL bastardization of the Catholic denomination. (Seriously, if you're Catholic, don't read this. You'll hate me.)  
**Pairing**: Pre-slash Skwisgaar x Toki.  
**A/N**: This was written for the "drama" category of the Kloktoberfest Contest at Vallhallska, a LiveJournal community of which I am a member. It is 5k+ words long. Prepare yourselves.

The air outside was heavy with moisture; Skwisgaar felt tiny beads of sweat trickle down his breastbone as he stepped onto the hotel balcony. He pulled the sliding door closed behind him and dug his bowl and a lighter out of his pocket, peering down at the crystal-coated green stuff inside and hoping that Pickles hadn't laced it with anything this time. He wanted to be high tonight, not out of his mind.

The sunset was bleeding its last few reddish rays over the city's horizon. As Skwisgaar burned the weed and inhaled, he glanced around the corner of the building. He could just make out the full moon, which was tinged a faint shade of orange—what Nathan and Murderface called a Harvest Moon. As his first hit took effect, Skwisgaar found himself a little transfixed by the beauty of it. The Harvest Moon would make the night; there was something romantic about a dusty orange moon hanging in the dark sky on Halloween Night.

"Tricks or treats," Skwisgaar giggled to himself, and took another hit. The band was scheduled to play a pretty big show later that night, and everyone was riding high on the hint Charles had dropped after they left the audition…everyone except Toki.

"You boys are playing the biggest Halloween party in the state on October 31st," the former lawyer had said. "So, ah…do try not to fuck it up, boys, okay? This could be your big break."

Toki had watched with wide, bright eyes as the band celebrated, slapping one another on the back and cheering themselves. He understood little of what they were saying, and hadn't picked up a word of Ofdensen's little speech—that much was obvious when he poked Skwisgaar in the ribs and asked for a translation.

"_We're playing on Halloween night, Toki!" _Skwisgaar had answered him, _"The biggest Halloween party in the state, the manager said, and this could be it!"_

Skwisgaar still couldn't figure out why news that brought the band such hysterical joy could send their one roadie into a bout of silence similar to catatonia, but it had. Toki had continued loading up the band equipment in silence, his face blank, and since the rest of Dethklok was paying the kid little attention, Skwisgaar followed suit. After all, it was rare that Toki was so silent. He usually kept up a constant flow of questions, which Skwisgaar had to answer. It got to be pretty annoying, that was for sure…he had snapped at Toki to shut up more times than he could count. Skwisgaar was not famous for his patience.

"I's famous for mine fingers," he said to himself, and giggled again. The colors around him seemed to leap out in blinding clarity. It suddenly occurred to him that getting Toki high would be a fabulous idea—far more fabulous than getting him drunk had been, anyway. He turned back toward the sliding glass door and pulled it open. Stepping into the air conditioning sent gooseflesh crawling up his skin, and Skwisgaar giggled again. It felt like he was disintegrating.

"_Tokiiiiiii…"_ he called. _"I've got a treat for you…"_ Skwisgaar felt a wide grin spread across his face. Pickles had definitely gotten some good shit this time.

"_Oh little Toki, where arrreeeee you?"_ Skwisgaar asked, poking his head into the tiny bedroom that they shared. Toki wasn't there, but Skwisgaar wasn't discouraged. He walked—floated?—toward the bathroom door and banged it open, fully expecting to surprise Toki in the act of showering…or possibly taking a piss.

_Preferably showering, _Skwisgaar thought, and smirked. He rarely felt the need to repress his bizarre sexual thoughts when he was stoned. Toki, however, was not showering. Nor was he going to the bathroom—he wasn't in the bathroom at all.

Skwisgaar, undaunted, laughed wildly. _"You want to play hide and seek, then, eh? All right! Ready or not, here I come…" _

Skwisgaar proceeded to search the rest of the little hotel room, still floating along on cloud nine. He peeked under the beds, dug through the linens in the closet, checked under the little kitchenette table, and as a last resort, began rifling through the cupboards and cabinets. His high was slowly beginning to give way to paranoia and panic when he heard someone hammering on the door.

"_There he is, the dumbass,"_ Skwisgaar jumped to his feet (he had been looking in the cupboard under the sink) and went to answer the door.

"_There you are, you idiot. I've been looking_—Nat'ans? Whats yous be doingks here?" Skwisgaar's eyes widened in surprise.

Nathan cocked one eyebrow, taking in Skwisgaar's distinctly disheveled appearance. "Dude, uh, your eyes are, like, redder than the devil's dick," he grunted. "Smoking that shit Pickles got for Magnus?"

Skwisgaar nodded. "If dis shits doesn'ts be doingks de tricks fors his hands, den nothingks will. Yous want a hit? I's was t'inkingks of givingks it to Toki, to sees whats be happeninkgs…buts I can'ts be findingks hims."

"Doesn't matter," Nathan shrugged, taking the proffered bowl and lighting up. "Kid already got all the shit on the van. I reckon we can, uh, move it off ourselves or somethin'."

He inhaled, held it for a moment, and let out the smoke in a coughing fit. Skwisgaar smacked him on the back a few times until Nathan regained his voice.

"Anyway, you should uh…probably start puttin' on that face stuff," Nathan said. "We're leavin' in like, half an hour."

"Well fucks. Whats ams I goingks to does 'bout Toki? I don'ts lets him has de rooms key, he's be losingks it too manies times."

Nathan shrugged, unconcerned. "If he ain't back tonight after the gig, we'll…I dunno, go look for him or somethin'. Put on that corpse paint and let's get goin'."

Skwisgaar wrinkled his nose. "I's donts be seeingks why we has to be wearingks dat stuffs."

Nathan rolled his eyes. "Dude, it's a Halloween party. You gotta dress up. It's like the law or somethin'. But real costumes are gay, so…we're going as a ourselves. But like, dead. You know. Just wear it. See you in a little bit, right?"

"Right," Skwisgaar muttered, as Nathan shut the door behind him.

The blond ventured into the bedroom he and Toki shared, digging around for the cheap little blister packs of white and black face paint that they had bought themselves the day before. He found them lying under Toki's bed, next to the ragged old Bible that Toki had stolen from his parents in Norway…but something wasn't right.

He picked up the worn book, remembering the conversation they had had the first time Skwisgaar had seen it.

"_Why the hell do you have a Bible, Toki? And what's this necklace thing in it?" Skwisgaar asked, plucking a dirty, dog-eared book out of Toki's backpack._

"_Why the hell are you going through my stuff?" Toki snapped in reply, snatching his bag, his book, and his necklace out of Skwisgaar's hands._

_Skwisgaar raised his eyebrow. Toki _never _spoke sharply to him. Ever._

_Toki sensed Skwisgaar's surprise, and sighed. He looked down at the Bible in his hand, closed around what Skwisgaar thought to be a necklace._

"_I…I stole it. From my parents. And the…the necklace is just a bookmark. Yeah."_

Looking back on it now, Skwisgaar realized that Toki had been lying. The Bible didn't belong to his parents—it had been his the whole time. The necklace wasn't a bookmark, either. It was a rosary, and the rosary was what was missing from the pages of the Bible.

"_Where has he gone? And why the hell did he take his rosary with him…?" _Skwisgaar muttered to himself in Swedish, as he placed the Bible back under the bed where he had found it.

Perturbed, he went into the bathroom and dumped the face paint on the counter. He had been counting on Toki doing this for him, because the stuff looked like it was going to be messy and Toki had never minded getting messy. Skwisgaar couldn't stand it, which meant it took him ages to smear the thick white paint over his bony face. He paused every few swipes to wipe his fingers on a wet towel. He had just gotten his face covered when he heard another knock at the door, and Nathan's booming voice yelling at him to hurry up.

Skwisgaar rubbed two circles of black around each of his eyes, smeared it in with the white until the edges of the circles faded into grey, and washed his hands. He opened the door with his guitar in hand, thinking that Nathan meant it was time to leave.

Nathan, however, didn't look twice at him. He was leading Magnus into Skwisgaar's room with his big hand wrapped around the other guitarist's forearm, a look of panic on his half-painted face.

"Get that weed, Skwisgaar," he ordered, as he sat Magnus down in one of the hideous floral easy chairs. "I'm thinkin' he's gonna need all of it tonight."

"Duuuuuude, I'm fine," Magnus mumbled, sprawling backward in the chair. "I'm floatin', man. Wayyyyy up there."

"You sures he really be needingks any mores?" Skwisgaar asked, as he handed Nathan his Ziploc bag and his bowl.

"Look at his fuckin' hands," Nathan growled, as he stuffed the bowl and rummaged in his pockets for a lighter. "Just look at 'em. We're fucked. Pickles is lookin' for opium."

Skwisgaar looked down at Magnus's hands, which were dangling between his knees as he leaned forward to take the hit Nathan was offering. The guitar players' fingers were drawn up, contorted into claws and swollen at the joints.

Skwisgaar muttered a low curse, reaching out toward Magnus's twisted hands in awe. It was the worst he had ever seen them. His own long, beautifully straight fingers brushed against one of Magnus's deformed knuckles, and the other guitarist snarled in pain.

"Don't fuckin' touch 'em," Magnus whispered, his eyes slitted tightly as his misshapen hands began to tremble. "Oh holy Mary mother of God don'ttouch'empleasedon'ttouch'em…."

"Hit it again, Magnus," Nathan growled, lighting the bowl once more. He held it out to the older man, but Magnus shook his head.

"Can't do anymore," he mumbled, and coughed. "Might puke. Too high as it is. Feels like glass in m'hands, dude…like shattered glass and it's flowin' through the veins in m'fingers…"

Nathan, a look of pure panic on his face, took the hit instead. It was only a moment later that Pickles came running into the room, tailed by William. The two of them doubled over in front of Nathan, hands on their knees as they coughed and tried to catch their breath.

"Can't get th' opium, dood," Pickles panted, "Ran all th' way back frahm m'dealer, he said he don't work w'that shit no more." He stood up, his tangled array of red dreadlocks falling all around his flushed face.

Will shook his head, still bent over his knees and breathing in heavy gasps. "Guysch…what the fuck are we gonna do?"

"I'm gonna fuckin' play it, that's what we're gonna do," Magnus snapped, standing up from the chair. He wobbled a little, and his eyes widened in surprise. "Whoooaaa, headrush."

He sat back down, hard. Nathan, Pickles, Will and Skwisgaar looked at him, then at one another. Their faces were masks of helplessness. For all Magnus's determination, there was no way he could play a guitar tonight. The arthritis he had suffered through for the past years had finally beaten him, warping his once-skillful hands into something ugly and useless.

Skwisgaar stared down at his fellow guitarist's hands, wishing that they were younger, straighter…and an idea dawned on him.

"Nat'ans, Will, Pickle, Magsnus…" he bit his full lower lip, praying that what he was about to try would end up working out. "Yous gets goingks to de clubs. Stalls de crowds…someshow. Plays showsoffy warmsup solos or somet'inkg. I t'inks…I t'inks I has an ideas. Maybes."

"What isch it?" Will asked. He had finally gotten enough wind to stand up straight again.

Skwisgaar shook his head. He knew that if outlined his plan now, it would be shot down immediately. He had to rely on the element of surprise. "Just goes. You's be seeingks whens I gets dere."

Nathan narrowed his bright eyes as Pickles and Will led Magnus out of the room. "This better be good, Blondie," he warned, and trudged out the door with the rest of his band.

Skwisgaar prayed that it would be.

xXx

The streets of downtown Atlanta were dark, muggy, and filled with the kinds of lowlifes that Skwisgaar didn't want a damn thing to do with. Homeless men snatched at the heels of his boots with skeletal hands, begging in Southern accents so thick that Skwisgaar couldn't wrap his mind around the words. He picked his way through shadowed back alleys littered with trash, nearly jumping out of his skin every time he heard a cat screech. He kept moving past the foul-smelling dumpsters, past sleazy bars bright with Halloween decorations. He was looking for Toki.

In the months before Skwisgaar and Toki had met the members of the band that would become Dethklok, the kid had found a tiny Catholic church somewhere in this trashy part of town. It had been a run-down brick building with a haphazardly-hung sign over the front doors that read, "Saint Someone's Shrine of the Immaculate Something-or-Other"—Skwisgaaar couldn't exactly remember. All he remembered was the way Toki had stared at the sign, at the giant cross bricked into the façade of the building, with a look of intense, burning fear across his wide-eyed face. Skwisgaar had to physically drag Toki away, grabbing the younger boy by the wrist and tugging him step by stumbling step back to their seedy hotel. Toki had remained nearly catatonic for the rest of the night.

Skwisgaar was going on nothing but hope that Toki would be back at that church tonight. He had no idea why Toki would pick tonight to go there, but where else would he have taken his rosary? Skwisgaar had been careful to keep him away from any other churches after that first incident. Toki _had _to be there…and if Skwisgaar could find the church, there might be hope yet for Dethklok.

Skwisgaar was so caught up in his thoughts that he tripped over a broken piece of sidewalk, falling face-first into the concrete. He tore the skin off his hands, cut his forehead, and felt the warm trickle of blood down his lips as his nose began to ooze. He rose to his feet cursing everyone and everything in Atlanta, in Georgia, in America itself…until he turned and found himself across the street from the church he had been looking for.

The sign was dangling even more crookedly than before, and its words were so weathered that Skwisgaar could make out nothing but "Saint Mary's Immaculate Shrine of." The wooden double doors were boarded over now, and gaping black holes scarred the once-beautiful stained glass windows. Tiny piles of shattered, colored glass were strewn along the sidewalk in front of the church, glittering like microscopic jewels in the faint streetlight. Strung across the entire front of the building was a bright yellow plastic ribbon, marked with some black letters that Skwisgaar couldn't quite read. He darted across the street and took the ribbon in his hands, holding it up to his face.

"D…da…danger," he muttered to himself, sounding out the foreign words as carefully as he could. "D…do…do not…en…ent…enter…c…con…condem…con-dem-ned?"

Skwisgaar didn't know what "condemned" meant, but he could understand "danger" fairly well. Toki, however, would not have been able to read the first word on the ribbon, and it was for that reason that Skwisgaar ducked under it and climbed the steps. Bits of glass crunched under his boots, and the sound seemed to echo all around him. For the first time, he became aware of the fact that there was no one around him. Not even the clutching, begging homeless were to be seen—there was only the muted echo of traffic in the distance, and the _crunch-crunch-crunch_ of broken glass under his feet as he moved toward one of the ruined windows.

Skwisgaar wiped the blood off his face and peered into one of the bigger gaps in the window. There was not much to be seen other than the dull play of colored light on the pale, ragged carpeting of the sanctuary. Reddish hues mixed in with greens and blues and yellows, all coming together to form some image from the Bible, an image that was distorted and disturbed by the holes in its arrangement.

The Swede began to feel his skin creeping. The hairs on the back of his neck were lifting, his balls were pulling up tight against his body, and he had to fight a near-overwhelming urge to run away from the crumbling chapel. There was something awful, something almost evil about a place of worship that had been so desecrated.

_Stop being a pussy and keep looking. _

Skwisgaar took a deep breath, and began to search the area of the sanctuary he could see. Most of it was still in shadows, but there was a single flickering point of light far in the back, where the deepest shadows lay, where the altar would have stood when people still came here to seek God.

Skwisgaar then became aware of a new sound, a sound that wasn't his blood-choked breathing, that wasn't the hum of distant cars, that wasn't the grinding of glass into concrete—it was the sound of a hushed, hurried voice, muttering frantically in a language that would have been music to Skwisgaar's ears in this land of drawling, twanging English-speakers had he not recognized the words for what they were.

"_Hail Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, amen."_

"_No,"_ Skwisgaar mumbled to himself, remembering the night when Toki had become so transfixed, so terrorized by the mere sight of a Christian cross. _"No, no, no…"_

Skwisgaar began to rip out more of the stained glass from the windows, wondering how Toki had ever gotten inside. He half-hoped that the sound of breaking glass would snap Toki out of his religious reverie, but the fact that the prayers continued uninterrupted was enough to confirm Skwisgaar's fears.

"_O my Jesus, have mercy on us. Forgive us our sins. Save us from the fires of hell…"_

He had finally broken a big enough pane of glass to admit his skinny body. Skwisgaar vaulted himself into the opening, cutting his palms open on the jagged bits of glass still left in the edges. He wiped the blood on his white shirt without thinking, moving as carefully as he could toward the flickering light near the altar. It had to be candlelight—the shadows it cast were dancing and shifting, illuminating so little of the way to the altar that Skwisgaar stumbled more than once against the things strewn in the aisles: broken pews, old Bibles and hymnals left to rot and mildew inside the corpse of a church. He fell only once, his hands coming down into a pile of something wet and squishy that he refused to look at, refused to even think about. He was hearing Toki's voice more clearly now, and he could hear the fear in it, could sense the sobs that were lurking just below the kid's whispered prayers.

"_My L-lord God, even now resignedly and w-willingly, I accept at Thy hand, with all it's a-a-anxieties, pains, and s-sufferings, whatever kind of d-death it shall p-please Thee to be m-m-mine…"_

Skwisgaar was close enough to see Toki now, kneeling on the rotted, moth-eaten cushions at the altar, his head bowed over the rosary clasped between his hands. A single candle burned in the altar's tarnished candelabra, looking like nothing so much as a lump of reddish, bleeding flesh. The kid's back was bare, and the candlelight threw each scar into sharp and startling relief.

"_Toki,"_ Skwisgaar whispered, hating as always the look of the younger boy's disfigured skin, hating even more the man who had disfigured him. _"Toki, can you hear me? It's Skwisgaar." _

There was no break in the mumbled prayers, not even a twitch in the direction of Skwisgaar's voice. He stood helpless for a few moments, watching, listening, the sound of murmured prayers in a forgotten church making his skin crawl.

"_In the n-name of Jesus Christ Our Lord and Savior I d-drive you from me, whoever you may be, unclean spirits, all s-satanic powers, all infernal invaders, all wicked legions, assemblies and sects, on this the n-night when the dead walk the earth…"_

Skwisgaar's eyes widened slightly as he realized just what had driven Toki to this desolate place. The kid was afraid of Halloween Night—had probably been taught since birth to fear it, taught the prayer he had just whispered as some bastardized version of a true exorcism prayer. The blond reached out, unable to help himself, and laid a hand on Toki's shoulder…

Toki finally reacted, but his reaction was worse than anything Skwisgaar ever could have expected. When the kid whirled around, his rosary twined safely around one wrist, he slapped Skwisgaar's bloody hand off his shoulder with a blow that would have broken the wrist had it hit any lower on the forearm. The blond stumbled backward, falling on his ass to the threadbare carpet and noticing, for the first time, that Toki wasn't really a kid anymore.

"_G-get thee behind me, Satan!" _Toki cried, trembling on his knees before Skwisgaar's prostrate body. His muscular shoulders were hunched, and his eyes were burning with insane fire.

"Toki, it's me," Skwisgaar said, slowly shifting himself to his knees. He froze when Toki whimpered and began to scramble away from him, clutching the cross of the rosary tight in one fist.

Skwisgaar slowed his movements even more, reaching one bleeding, open hand toward the younger man, trying to ignore the pounding of his heart in his thin chest. "Toki…it's me. It's Skwisgaar. I'm not Satan."

Toki's eyes narrowed, his expression passing from fear into confusion and back to fear…but the psychotic glint of those eyes never wavered, and Skwisgaar kept still, until Toki began to speak in a low, whispering voice.

"_He's dead, then," _Toki buried his face into the tops of his knees and began to shake. _ "He's d-dead and this is his c-corpse walking the earth…sent to p-punish me…punish me for the sins in my heart, to drag me to hell…I killed him…I killed Skwisgaar…"_

It was only then that Skwisgaar realized what he must look like to Toki, especially with his current mindset: covered in pale white paint, with sunken black eyes and blood smeared across his face, his hands, his clothes, sneaking up behind him like a ghost in the broken remains of a church.

Skwisgaar gathered up the front of his wifebeater and began to scrub at his face, trying to wipe off as much of the paint and the blood as he could. When he was finished, he opened his mouth to tell Toki to look at him, but the words fell dead in his throat.

Toki was still hugging his knees, but he had begun to rock himself as well as tremble. Blood was dripping down the beaded chain of the rosary as the cross inside his fist bit into his skin. He was praying to himself, his voice muffled by his knees.

"_Lord God, my Father, I tried, I tried so hard to be good this time. I tried to do like everyone told me ever since I came here and I tried not to feel like that about him, I tried, I tried so hard but now here he is, he's dead and he's here and he's dead and he's going to kill me and take me to Hell and oh God I belong there, I belong there, I belong there…"_

Skwisgaar felt sick. Sick to his stomach, sick to his heart, sick to his soul. He knew now that Toki was permanently damaged by what had been done to him in Norway. Part of him would always been warped, would always be sitting on a hair trigger, poised on the verge of this psychosis…

Skwisgaar did the only thing he could think of to do. He knelt in front of Toki, used one hand to gently lift his face upward, and slapped him. Hard. Toki reeled backward, but before he had a single moment to react, Skwisgaar had pulled him into as fierce a hug as his skinny arms could stand.

"_Toki. It's me. It's Skwisgaar, and I'm not dead. I'm not here to take you to hell...this _is _your hell, and I'm trying to take you away from it. I want to take you away from it. If you'll come with me." _

Toki looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. All traces of insanity were gone, drowned by a childish hope, a desire to actually believe in something good.

"_Toki, can you play?" _Skwisgaar asked his question, locking his gaze with Toki's and carefully working the tiny wooden cross out of his now-limp palm. The blood was only trickling now. It wouldn't impair him at all…if he could do it.

"_Play? Play what?" _Toki asked. He sounded like someone waking from a long coma.

"_Stand up," _Skwisgaar said, and slung an arm around Toki's broad shoulders. The younger man allowed himself to be pulled upward, stumbling slightly as the blood rushed back into legs that had spent hours folded beneath him.

"_Can you play the guitar?" _Skwisgaar asked. He left his arm around Toki's shoulders as they made their way back toward the broken window, even though Toki had regained his balance.

"_Yes, Skwis, you know I can," _Toki answered, his voice clearer now. He bent over to pick up a ragged piece of cloth from the floor. He spread it over the jagged pieces of glass still lodged in the window, and proceeded to climb out. He was bulkier than Skwisgaar, but he was shorter—he made it out with only a few scratches. Skwisgaar followed after him, still holding Toki's bloody rosary in one hand.

"_I know you can," _Skwisgaar answered, putting the rosary back into Toki's hand. _ "But can you play with the band? In a show?" _

Toki's jaw dropped.

"_You mean the show tonight? The…the one for the party? The one that's supposed to make you guys famous?" _

"_That's the one."_

"_But…but Skwisgaar, you're rhythm, and Magnus is…Magnus…?" _Toki tailed off there, realizing from Skwisgaar's face what must have happened.

"_He can't do it, Toki. I doubt he can ever do it again…it's getting worse. They'll put me at lead, but we still need rhythm. You're going to have to convince Nathan, but…well, if you have faith in yourself…you can do it." _

Toki blinked up at Skwisgaar a few times, but his eyes had gone far away. Skwisgaar was half afraid that he was lapsing back…

…and then Toki pulled his arm back and threw the bloody rosary into the darkness of the decrepit church.

"_Yeah," _he muttered, gazing into the broken windows with watery eyes. _ "I can do it." _

xXx

When Skwisgaar and Toki at last stumbled through the back door of the metal club, each clutching a stitch in his side and wheezing for breath, Nathan was at a temporary loss for words.

"What…" he muttered, taking in the Swede's smeared, bloody face, his filthy clothes. "…the hell? Dude…you look fuckin' brutal."

"Ja," Skwisgaar panted, leaning heavily on Toki's arm. "We's…we's has been runningks. Runneds out ofs de cabs monies."

"Well, ya better catch yer breath, dood," Pickles called. He was crouched on all fours, peeping under the gap between the curtain and the floor. "Will's been slappin' that bass w'his cack fer the past fifteeen minutes."

"So, uh, what's your big idea?" Nathan asked. His voice was steady, but his painted face was a masterpiece of anxiety. "And it better be good, 'cause uh…Ofdensen took Magnus to the ER earlier so uh, he's, like…he definitely can't do it."

Skwisgaar, now at last able to stand up straight, glanced at Toki.

"I plays de leads tonight, ja?" he said. Nathan nodded, but as he opened his mouth to add that they still needed a rhythm guitarist, Skwisgaar cut him off. "Ands…Toki cans be playingks de rhythms."

Nathan's reaction was as instantaneous as it was negative; the muscles in his massive, crossed forearms bulged rock-hard as the tension crept downward from his face.

"Fuck you, Skwisgaar!" he snarled. "We were counting on your scrawny ass tonight! The kid can't even fuckin' speak _English!" _

Skwisgaar actually shrank back slightly; Toki, however, stepped up toe-to-toe with the hulking frontman. He tilted his face back a little, in order to lock Nathan's eyes with his own. Nathan looked ready to strike out at any moment; his face was twisted into a sneer that showed predatory canine teeth. Pickles stood, up, moving toward the two of them as if to put himself between them, but Skwisgaar held up a hand and shook his head ever so slightly.

The first English words that Toki Wartooth ever spoke were halting and broken, reminiscent of Skwisgaar's own thick accent…but they were spoken in the confident tone of a man who knew his own worth.

"I can does it. You knows I can does it. Lets me play."

Nathan opened his mouth as if to retort, but no sound came out—his eyebrows scrunched together and he stared at Toki in naked disbelief. Pickles was staring, too, peering around Nathan's bulk with wide green eyes.

"Dood…!" Pickles grinned broadly, breaking the stunned silence as he slipped around Nathan and threw his skinny arms around Toki's shoulders. "Ya did it!"

"What'sch going on back here?" Will trudged backstage, buttoning his fly with one hand and mopping sweat off his corpse-painted face with the other. "I can't fuckin' do thisch all night, guysch, we gotta do schomething."

Nathan looked at Will, then back at Toki, teeth worrying the meat of his lower lip as he tried to make up his mind. At last, with a heavy sigh, he said. "Fuck. All right. Pickles…get the kid made up, quick."

"Righto dere, chiefy," Pickles agreed merrily. He dragged Toki toward a cracked mirror before the younger man had even had a chance to ask what Nathan had said.

"I better not regret this, you fuckin' skinny bitch," Nathan grumbled, watching Pickles spread a sloppy layer of the face paint over Toki's high cheekbones.

"Pfft," Skwisgaar was grinning to himself as he plucked a few strings on his guitar. "I nevers makes de mistakes when it comes to de guitars. You be knowingks dis."

Nathan said nothing—there wasn't time. Pickles had already finished with Toki and was scurrying to take his place behind the curtain, which would put him directly behind his drumset when the curtain rose. Nathan and William moved toward the other side of the stage, and the parting look the lead singer send his new lead guitarist was withering.

Skwisgaar turned to tell Toki to follow him, but the Norwegian spoke first. His eyes were bright and hectic as he slipped the strap of his flying V over his shoulders, and he spoke only one word.

"Skwisgaar…?"

The blond smiled. He held out one long-fingered hand, his lips slanted in a half-smile. Toki took it, offering his own nervous grin in return and allowing himself to be pulled toward the side of the stage from which the guitarists had been told to enter.

"You're going to do great," Skwisgaar whispered in Toki's ear, still clutching the shorter man's hand tightly.

The announcer was bellowing, "GIVE IT UP FOR…DETHKLOK!" The curtain was rising. Toki let go of Skwisgaar's hand and flashed him a grin.

"I know." He said, and the two of them hustled into the glare of lights.


End file.
